


a part of me would like to travel in your veins

by singitagain



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, Kink, M/M, Medical Kink, Nygmobblepot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sort of hurt/comfort, Sounding, Speculum, Vibrators, body image issues, bottom!wald, canon-divergent, gaping, keep dreaming ed, love in a time of man flus, nygmobbleporn, rectal thermometers, scopes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 09:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singitagain/pseuds/singitagain
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot faces his greatest enemy yet - the flu. Fortunately, his chief of staff is there to be of service in multiple capacities, as Ed Nygma is wont to do.(A medical kink fic as requested by a friend. Please observe the tags, tread carefully.)





	a part of me would like to travel in your veins

**Author's Note:**

> (Takes place in that same AU as the other fics, that is to say, a version of Gotham in which Ed and Oswald were in a relationship.
> 
> I apologize in advance for any wonkiness - despite my obsessive editing mistakes do happen and I lack a beta reader.)

Oswald Cobblepot won't _die_ of the flu.

He _refuses._

Still, no amount of money or power or waving his name around like a loaded gun can will it away, either.

He blames his recent string of class visits at an elementary school and Ed's inclined to agree, in more than just a show of support. Too many coughing, sticky-fingered kids pawing at him and sneezing in his general direction, though coupled with Oswald's absentminded nail-biting, getting sick on the job was never an _if_ and always a matter of _when_. 

It's a little fascinating how quickly it comes on, the chills, the dribbly nose. Back at the mansion Ed helps him out of his suit and waistcoat and settles him onto the couch, offering him a set of soft cotton pajamas from the master bedroom. The parlour quickly becomes Oswald's new base of operations, his life built around him. In only a few hours the place smells like a special kind of death, menthol and sweat, valerian root tea (they're out of chamomile, apparently) and stale onions, the latter part of a steaming poultice he had made and packed over Oswald's chest at his behest. Soon, Oswald's nose has clogged up and Ed is almost used to the smells anyway, deciding it's really not the worst he's had to put up with considering his long stint in forensics. He slips on a disposable cloth mask anyway, more for his own protection than anything else, offending Oswald with it. By midnight Oswald's a boneless wreck, too exhausted to care about the ugly feelings - memories of Arkham - a simple face mask dredges up.

"Ugh, I can't breathe," Oswald whines for the fourth time in half as many minutes. "I _hate_ this." He shivers away sweating out half his body weight, the open collar of his shirt sticking to his skin. "Stay with me. Please."

Ed smiles down at him. "Where else would I go?"

He clears a footstool of a mug and plate and sits on it by Oswald's side, stretching to touch the back of his hand to his forehead. He keeps it there a moment. "Headache, muscle soreness, excessive perspiration - all indicative of a fever." Ed calmly rolls up his pressed sleeves. "It's best if I take your temperature."

Oswald's eyelids flicker at the sound of a wrapper being torn, one eye cracking open and swiveling around. Ed's unsheathing a glass thermometer from a sleeve in his breast pocket. 

"It'll have to be rectally." He rubs the tip with a wet wipe, the sharp scent of wintergreen spiking up his nostrils. "Fortunately, it's pretty easy."

Oswald's pupils sharpen. 

"...what?!"

That sharp hiss hits him like a whip; Ed feels his shoulders go stiff in the way only Oswald's kneejerk reactions can manage. "Which part are you unsure of?" He asks, evenly enough.

"All of it!" Oswald snaps, the cords of his neck tight against his skin as he swings partway up off the couch. A bad idea, because he claps a hand to his forehead and drops back with a miserable groan. 

Ed stands his ground though he has the decency to look vaguely apologetic, if only a moment. He isn't Oswald's physician, realizes that, but after nursing Oswald back to health when he was laid up in bed with a nicked lung, nauseous and shaking, waves of pain knocking him into and out of consciousness, he feels he has some authority. Wouldn't be the first time Oswald had suffered a fever under his watchful eye.

"I promise it's not as bad as it sounds." He says, pushing the words out of his mouth before he can be interrupted. He thumbs up his glasses. "Like I said, it is pretty essential that we take your temperature. Several times over the next few days."

Oswald scrubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. 

"...here's an idea - can we not? I mean, what ever happened to just putting it in my mouth? It's what mother always did."

Ed regards him with practiced patience, smiling his pursed-lipped smile behind his mask. "Taking temperatures rectally is universally recognized as the most accurate method of collecting data. Numbers are important, Oswald."

Oswald is still staring at him flatly, a stubborn set to his jaw.

Ed clears his throat.

"...aaaand this is the only one I found in the house," he admits, finally. "I washed it."

"Oh." He nods to himself. Pokes his tongue up against his cheek. "Lovely."

"Note the blunt, rounded end, and the red colour to the stem." Ed lifts the slender thermometer up for Oswald to see, unasked. "Classic tip-offs as to the type of thermometer being used. Just remember the letter R - both for red and rectum." 

He chuckles, as if at a clever joke. It doesn't take. His grin falls.

"...Technically, it can be used it orally as well, although it's not recommended as oral thermometers are specifically designed with a longer tip for more exposure. More exposure, more accuracy. Besides..." 

Ed holds up two fingers in a V.

"You've been mouth-breathing, _and_ you've just had a sip of your tea recently, both of which will affect the read--

"Okay, _okay_ \--" Oswald relents, eyes fluttering shut. "I _get_ it." A muscle ripples in his clenched jaw. "Just get it over with."

"I'll give you a moment to get comfortable. Let me know when you're ready."

Ed looks away. He hears a gasp, a strangled moan, springs creaking. The family portraits look on from the walls, a silent, sullen jury. Ed might have felt embarrassed if he were anyone else. 

"...Okay," Oswald announces, hoarsely. "But I just want you to know that I still hate everything about this even if I am agreeing to it."

He's curled up onto his side, still dressed, his back to Ed when Ed turns to him. Oswald's button-up shirt has ridden up a little. The knobs of his spine look like marbles under his skin.

"Could be worse." Ed suggests. "...Although perhaps I can make this more agreeable for you?"

"Short of you skipping this entirely, I fail to see how."

"We'll see. Could you... bring your knees up and shift a little closer to -- yes, that's perfect."

Oswald obliges him with the grudging reluctance of a child, wriggling his ass out far enough to have it just slightly over the edge of the cushions. It makes him easier to expose, pajamas and briefs hissing down knife-sharp hipbones and the gentle swell of his buttocks with all possible care. He's still shaking, though Ed can't tell if it's nerves or a bout of sick-shivers rolling through him. The situation demands a light, careful hand either way.

Ed uncaps the container of Vaseline in arm's reach on the coffee table - Oswald's been smudging the stuff over the raw, cracked skin around his nostrils - and dips in a q-tip, smearing jelly all around the bulb of the thermometer. Then along the stem, an inch down. He sets it aside, coating his index and middle fingers next.

"You know, this is pretty standard practice with newborns."

Oswald's back stiffens. From the shift of his shoulders It's not unlikely that he's crossed his arms. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Depends how you want to take it." Ed says, a touch of a smile in his voice.

Oswald's skin is blood-hot when he lays his hand over an ass cheek and gently pulls it aside. No real resistance on Oswald's part, which is pleasant surprise, though when his fingertips find the delicate crinkle of his anus and press up against him, flat and slick, Ed feels him jerk a little, feels the adrenaline snap through his spine.

His heart gives a hard kick in turn.

"Easy, Oswald." He soothes. It's like trying to calm a wounded, startled animal. He resists the instinct to draw his hand back, waiting for Oswald to settle into his touch before swirling the pads of his fingers around and around, unrushed, maintaining light, even pressure. "Just relax. You've done this before." 

He doesn't know how many times he repeats variations of the same words over the course of a minute or two, how long it takes before they lose all meaning. Oswald stills, making soft, half-bitten murmurs as nature takes its course and his body begins to soften into the slow, coaxing circles Ed's making.

"See?" Ed grins, can't help himself. "Easy as pie."

A gentle touch is always useful, but persistence is key.

"...oh..." comes Oswald's breathy exhale, about half a minute too late to sound like he's on the same planet, and Ed's not sure what kind of 'oh' that is - whether it's closer to _oh god_ or an _oh_ of shivery, private pleasure, or even the _oh_ that slips from someone's lips when they're only just wrapping their heads around a situation they're already neck-deep in. But he suspects the truth lies somewhere in between as Oswald's pucker twitches faintly, briefly catching his fingertip.

Still holding Oswald open, he twists around to swab up another blob of Vaseline on his pinkie finger and pluck the thermometer from the table. He shakes the mercury down with a few snaps of his wrist.

"It may be a little cold."

He cocks his head, licking his lips. A moment of long, unbroken focus, breath bitten back as he uses his other hand to spread Oswald with his thumb and middle finger, to stretch his tight hole flat and dab him with jelly, rubbing the bulb up against him, plying him.

Oswald's breathing thickens.

Ed feels a familiar tightness in his chest, sucks a breath in through his teeth. He can picture it vividly, Oswald's heartbeat trembling the thin stretch of skin over his ribs. 

"Okay - try not to move," He cautions, angling the tip and feeding the thermometer inside him with sure, sliding push. It sinks in an inch, nice and easy, teasing a whimper out of Oswald. More anxiety than actual pain, he thinks. Hopes. He lifts his hand away, his right still keeping a firm grip on the stem nestled between Oswald's cheeks while watching Oswald sink into the couch in degrees, the gentling rise and fall of his side.

"How much longer?" Oswald rasps, after a while.

Ed steals a glance at his watch.

"Two minutes and six seconds. ...Five seconds."

Two hours in _Oswald-time_ , in other words.

"Wha--" Oswald huffs, chokes on his own spit. "Are you kidding me?!"

"Please try not to move too much. You really don't want the glass to break, trust me."

" _Fantastic._ "

For Oswald, keeping still with something stuck in him like a quill is just another inconvenience among dozens in his daily life. But for Ed, it's the longest two minutes in recent memory. It's not the silence that gets to him while the house shifts and settles, an emptiness normally filled by talk and the gurgling of wine into a glass, by sputtering fires or the soft crackle of a record on the gramophone. He can live with that. He's had all his childhood and most of adulthood to get used to being alone. It's curiosity that kills. It's feeling the stirring of the thermometer between his fingers, the subtle workings of restless muscles pulling at it. It's having Oswald at his literal fingertips and fighting to keep still, to be good, when he could roll him effortlessly onto his belly and smother himself up into his ass, lapping sweat and Vaseline off his needy, greased-up hole and _Frenching_ his way inside, slippery-soft, luxurious kisses.

(Roughly two hundred and fifty licks to reach the soft insides of a Tootsie Pop and less than sixty to reach Oswald's on a good day, last he counted.)

The truth is, there's little mystery left to the finer details of Oswald's flesh, his outer bits. Ed's counted the pale constellation of freckles across his nose, kissed the web of bluish veins threading his temples and all the tiny scars pocking his knees and elbows. He's found his most ticklish places feathering his lips over his eyelids and each rib, the velvety spot behind the shell of his ear and the softness where his throat and his jaw meet, hearing the rumble of laughter in his chest. He's known the salt of his sweat and the dark, musky taste of him between his legs. He loves the angles and edges of Oswald's body, twisted leg and all. But not all parts are created equal, and some he loves more than others. It's not wrong, having favourites. The brain wants what it wants and his cock follows. He's only human.

The fingers of his right hand tighten slightly around the thermometer.

A yes from Oswald in better health, that's all it'd take, and he'd be upstairs and back in a heartbeat with his things, his tools and toys, untested creations. Realistically, it wasn't likely he could get Oswald into stirrups for it but it's a delicious thought anyway, settling between the taut, quivering V of his thighs with a world of dizzying possibilities at his fingertips. Or Oswald jack-knifed over pillows and waiting for him, the hungry thrust of his ass alone enough to make his balls ache. He'd give that a nine out of ten, not only for the presentation but the mere idea that Oswald could, with enough trust and crazy, wrenching need, serve himself up like a Michelin-star meal, squirming, seeking heat and pressure, the press of a good friend's mouth. 

_Lie back and think of Gotham._

Ed thinks he'd start with the slimmest sound he owned, nothing too ambitious. Thread it gingerly, with soothing encouragements, through Oswald's tender piss hole and see how he takes it. Rather, watch him take it and tremble as it bottoms out, twanging the sweet nerve cluster in his prostate. Some tears are a given with Oswald. He'd want to see his face, blotchy and wet, kiss it all over. Want to see his teeth sink into his lip, biting down on keening moans when he'd gouge his cock into him and split him open, fucking him soft and dreamy-eyed. Oswald would be ready for it, after, readier for the slide of a scope into his ass, his puffy slit spreading around it. There are no such thing as perfect circles, man-made or in nature; Ed's accepted that. But they'd come breathtakingly close tunneling the scope into Oswald's insides and coring him out as he'd slide the obturator free, peering down into lush, glistening pinkness opened to the world. New depths to plumb with thin, twisting probes and vibrators. With a surgeon's steady hand, its hair-splitting precision, and all the patience in the world.

Oswald wouldn't stand a chance. 

He'd go blind, crazed and blitzed out on adrenaline. And by the time he'd wring Oswald dry, leave him sobbing, all of him shuddering, Ed would be hard for him again. Scope out and speculum in, no rest. Trembling flesh yielding to cold, hard metal, to blades stretching Oswald wider and wider with every twist of the screw, air licking his insides. There's something so beautiful about the simple, brutal efficiency of it. The way metal would frame his raw, sloppy hole, gaping him rudely. How muscles would still strain and squeeze around the blades anyway, helpless to close when Ed would slip his cock in, barely touching him all around. He'd pump come into Oswald's hot, fluttery guts because he could and in a perfect world Oswald would thank him for it, blissed out and boneless, welcoming the soothing touch of his tongue after the speculum came out and all his tools were put away for another night.

"...Are we done?" Oswald asks, warily.

Ed stirs with a soft hitch in his breath, glancing down at his crotch first - the bulge in his slacks - and then at his watch.

He's 18 seconds over the three minute mark.

Fortunately, three minutes is only a suggestion, a guideline.

"Affirmative." Out slides the thermometer, slowly, only the slightest bit of drag before Oswald's hole twitches closed. Ed holds it up to the light, squinting. "101.2." His tone is calm, matter-of-fact. "...Not surprised. We'll check again every five hours or so until your headache eases off and you look less... sweaty."

He begins to dress Oswald, delicately, swallowing. Their hands brush and no one apologizes, though he draws back and lets Oswald finish, lets him roll over sluggishly and lie around as long as he needs to with his palms pressed to his eyes.

"Wow." Oswald sighs.

Ed looks up in the middle of running a fresh alcohol wipe over the thermometer, brows lifting slightly.

"That was almost professional," Oswald continues, from behind his hands. "You had me pretty convinced, up until the five minutes of persistent fingering."

"...More like one minute, actually."

" _Whatever!_ " Oswald sniffs. He drops his hands, tucking them tight under his armpits. "...You had your fun."

Heat prickles up the nape of Ed's neck. 

"I made it a much less intimidating experience for you. And it worked." He snorts humourlessly, one corner of his mouth going up. "Besides, if I had managed to hurt you you'd never let me hear the end of it."

"... _STILL_ weird, Ed!"

A strange way of saying thanks, Ed thinks, wryly, slipping the thermometer back into its sleeve. But entirely Oswald. "Why?" There's genuine curiosity in it. "...Don't you trust me?"

Oswald turns his head to look at him, then, to really look at him with an expression on his face Ed can't place. "Ed..." He starts, blinking.

"All I'm saying is that it shouldn't be - embarrassing, that is. I love you, Oswald..." -- the words feel funny in his mouth, giving him pause-- "and there was nothing I haven't already seen before. That you haven't already let me see."

Oswald's throat moves.

"...Well it just... _was_ , okay?"

There's no fire to it, no bite. Still, it hangs between them, looming, neither of them knowing what to do with it. 

"I see." Ed says, finally. He doesn't.

"Fair enough." He stands after a while, Oswald sitting up and looking into his face, his arms still folded. Ed doesn't think he's noticed his erection. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"I'm thinking a very strong hot toddy and an aspirin would be a godsend right about now."

"I can get you orange juice," Ed offers. "Alcohol dehydrates, as you know. And doesn't play well with acetylsalicylic acid. Risk of internal bleeding, remember?"

The answer gets him a roll of his eyes and a long-suffering sigh to match. "Ugh, fine." Oswald kneads his temple, wincing. "Just get me _something_ \- will you? Please."

"Will do."

Ed pads out of the room, returning with two gel capsules in his palm and a tall glass of juice. He holds them out, watching Oswald clutch the glass in his trembling hands and half-worried he'll spill it all over himself when he tips it back. He doesn't, his throat bobbing as he drinks and drinks, gulping half of it in a single breath. The aspirin follows, chased down with a couple long, grateful swallows that empty the glass. Oswald knuckles his lips dry and hands it back. Ed can feel his gaze on him as he sets the glass aside and then stands by the couch, expectant. "May I sit?"

Oswald sniffs, vaguely gesturing to the space beside him. "If you want." 

Ed sinks into the couch facing him, one leg tucked under him.

The slouch to his shoulders makes Oswald seem smaller, fragile. His shirt's half open, sweat tracing the column of his throat, his breastbone, and Ed's gaze is drawn, as he always is, to the starburst of scar tissue under his left collarbone, between the chest and armpit. It was fascinating, its hairless smoothness against his fingers, his lip, like melted plastic. A marvel of the flesh.

When Oswald lets his eyes drift shut and leans his way, bumping his head into his chest -- tiredness? a show of forgiveness? -- Ed's ready for him; he's learned to curve an arm around him and let it rest, gently, over his back. Holding him like he's glass. Oswald doesn't ever seem to mind. 

Ed can hear his snoring-thick, snuffling attempts to breathe against his shirt and looks down at him, wondering if he should lift his mask to press a kiss to the damp tangle of his hair. He doesn't, thinking about his shirt instead and sloughing it off, tossing it into the wash when he'd have a moment alone.

"I want to make it up to you." Ed decides. It's not an admission of fault - he's done no wrong - so much as it just a simple peace offering, the sort of concessions he's used to making.

"Well... you can certainly start by tossing that thermometer in the trash and buying a proper one from the drugstore first thing in the morning."

"Sure thing."

"...Good."

Ed edges his thumb along one shark-finned shoulderblade through Oswald's shirt.

"I had something in mind, for when you're feeling better." He says, after a moment. "I think you'll like it."

"Oh...?"

He smiles a little over Oswald's shoulder.

"You'll see. ...Now try to get some sleep, Oswald. You'll need it."

***


End file.
